The Angry Beaver

Every now and again my good friend Mark would drop by in the early evening on a Friday and ask Barb, my wife, "Can Jim come out and play?"

One nice Friday evening, with permission from Barb, we walked down to one of the local pubs for a pint of Guinness or two. Since the weather was so nice we decided to sit out on the patio.

Our routine was always the same. We would spend an hour or two just catching up with each other, finding out what was going on in each other's lives, our work, our families.

Marietta is a very sleepy, quiet, historic town along the Susquehanna River in south central Pennsylvania. There are only two things that disturb the peace here: the town's fire siren, and the horns of trains.

I really do not now the history of the town's fire siren. But our siren is infamous for being the loudest siren in the entire world. Marietta, geographically, covers a very, very, very small area of land. But our siren can be heard across the river, to many neighboring towns, and for miles and miles around. The siren has been the topic of much debate and furor in town, and has even caused people to move and leave town. But, for whatever the reason, it continues to wale and deafening decibels.

As for the trains, a major supply route runs along the Susquehanna River and the trains are required by law to blow their horns at any road crossing that does not have crossing guards. The road crossings with the railroad in Marietta are only small access roads to the river. They hardly call for the great expense of crossing guards. The roads are used more by pedestrians headed to the river than they are by cars. And the trains horns are loud. They rock this small town. And for some lighter sleepers, it is enough to make them sit straight up in bed when the horn sounds at 3 a.m.

As Mark and I caught up with one another, out on the patio, right next to the train tracks, we both overheard a conversation gaining strength and volume from a table next to ours.

It seems that a group of four men had noticed a beaver playing on the railroad tracks and became locked on its every move.

Now I have seen beavers before, but rarely in this area.

And they weren't kidding. There he was. It was a beaver. And he seemed to be pulling branches together out on the tracks.

Well one of the four men watching the beaver suddenly suggested that the beaver was likely going to get hit by the next train. And with such heavy train traffic, it would likely be soon.

What?!?!?!?

This is not what we cared to see.

Well I do believe that the four gentlemen next to us had quite a few more pints than we had. But I was touched by their kindness when one suggested that they go try to chase the beaver back into the narrow slice of woods between the railroad tracks and the river.

The four men quickly agreed. Mark said to me, "Let's go help."

I kind of figured four men was plenty to scare a beaver. But I guess that's why I've always liked Mark - he hates to pass up on a unique opportunity.

We caught the foursome, quickly introduced ourselves, said "We're here to help," and in seconds we were face to face with a beaver.

We formed a half circle around the beaver and started waving our arms and making noises that I guess we figured would frighten any self-respecting beaver.

But this beaver was not scared. He was mean.

The beaver showed us his teeth, snarling, saliva flying as he snapped his teeth at us all one by one. This was one angry beaver.

Then we heard it - the train horn in the distance.

One of the four men who led the charge up to the tracks quickly suggested. "Bill," he said to one of the men, "I'm going to back my van up here. I've got an empty tv box in the back. Let's throw the box over the beaver, shuffle him inside, toss the box in the van, and drive this beaver north of Bainbridge."

"Do it!" Bill agreed.

The train horn sounded again. It was getting closer.

The beaver was getting angry. The branches he had collected were his, and there was no way he was leaving his spot.

Mark and I started to withdraw a bit.

The van backed up to the tracks with some speed and slammed on the brakes. The backdoors were quickly opened and out came a giant tv box. The foursome prepared the tv box for optimum "beaver capturing." One man yelled out to Mark and I to get the beaver's attention.

The train horn sounded again. It was getting louder.

Mark dived close to the beaver and it snapped out towards him. As the beaver recoiled two of the other men tossed the box over the beaver. The other two men swiftly rolled the box over quickly and sealed the box by interlocking the top flaps. They lifted the box and gently placed it in the back of the van, then shutting the doors.

The driver of the van and one of the other four men discussed their planned drop-off destination. A more generous stretch of wildnerness away from the dangers of man.

The train passed by, horn wailing, deafening, shaking the ground.

The van took off. They were in for about a 8-mile drive north along the river.

The remaining four of us began to head back to the pub. We were proud. We felt like we really accomplished something good. We patted each other on the back and smiled and laughed.

Then Mark said to me "How long to you think it takes an angry beaver to get out of a cardboard tv box?"

I've always been a fan of great story-telling. This story was adapted from one I had heard on NPR. (smile)